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Free beer and high society

I’ve been to another world. I caught a glimpse of it last night when work brought me into its proximity.
Marco Huck fought Ola Afolabi at the Max-Schmeling-Halle. Huck won. I was sitting beside the ringside girls - Tina, Sawi and Katharina. But the interesting shit happened afterward, after the press conference.
I was introduced to Ola, shook his hand, commiserated.
“Irish geezer,” he said. Nice fella. He thanked me for the best wishes.Then the party. There had been a buffet laid on for journalists but nothing like the colossal spread for the VIPs and suited people. It was HUGE! The table was the length of the room, stacked from top to bottom with hot food, cold food, weird fruits, cakes, caviar, ice-cream, sculpted things, fancy ass rolls and all manner of shit I’d be afraid to eat in case it charged me. There was enough to feed a herd of elephants after a month of abstinence.
Not only that, but free beer. Free beer! As much as you could drink. A dream! Every time I went back with an empty glass they handed me another one, full. I did my best, I kept returning them, but every time I handed in a glass it came back full.
The people were the highlight, however. The place was crammed with celebrities in fancy clothes, though I’d no idea who any of them were. They were shaking their stuff, grooving their grooves on the dance floor while the DJ played 70s and electronic beats.I felt like James Bond, despite my shoddy appearance. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring my camera and the battery on my phone had died. I talked to one fella who looked like he could be a celebrity but I couldn’t tell you who he was.
The boxers were there too, all of them with their entourages, and all of them surrounded by beautiful women. Well, slappers. But glamorous slappers.
It’s funny. The boxers had faces like a trainwrecks, yet were surrounded by gaggles of drooling women, tits hanging out over low cut tops and high-heeled legs to the ceiling.
I stayed to the side, emptying my beers as fast as I could, trying to keep up with the full ones. All in a day’s work. Ever the consummate professional.

Spudnik Ó Fathaigh has called Berlin home since St. Patrick’s Day 2008, when he arrived doe-eyed and thirsty after a ferry from Ireland and long drive through France. The doe-eyes have since been surpassed by those of his son, as doe-eyed as they come, but the thirst is yet to be cured.
Three stolen bikes, innumerable bike-theft attempts, eight mobile phones and countless (and counting) Sternis later, der Irische Berliner – as he’s also known – spends his time poking his nose where noses aren't welcome and bestowing the benefits of his foul language and gutter speak on the locals.
Of course, he’s a local now too. When not working on amusing alliteration combinations or ignoring Betreten Verboten signs, Spudnik rants, rages and reports to the best of his frightening ability.